


The Deeper I Go, The Darker It Gets

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:59:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg might be home safe, but it's harder to be rescued from your own mind.</p>
<p>Ties in with these blog posts: <a href="http://boringlifeofjohnwatson.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/bad-news.html">Bad News</a><br/><a href="http://interestingmurders.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/no-witty-or-relavant-song-lyric-tonight.html">No Witty Or Relevant Song Lyric Tonight</a> and onwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deeper I Go, The Darker It Gets

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by RandomlyRusted

He sat in the gloom, the light from the kitchen throwing long shadows across the lounge.

The flat was silent – or as silent as it ever got. An occasional car would roll by, the shadows emerging, being chased away, and then creeping back once more. The night bus rumbled to a stop outside, the brake lights throwing a sudden blood-red glow through the window.

A clock ticked. The kettle clicked as it cooled. The mug of tea on the floor by his foot remained undrunk.

He breathed out a sigh, silent, the air barely whispering past his lips.

His knee was protesting now, as he sat pushed up in the corner of the sofa, one leg curled under him. His hands were securely stuffed up the sleeves of the soft hoody he wore, the ends of the sleeves bunched in his fists, knuckles sticking out as the fabric stretched taut over them.

He knew he ought to go back to bed, where John was curled up, warm, soft, safe. He should go back to their room, slide beneath the warm feather duvet. Watch as the shadows towered above him. Jump every time John shifted or murmured in sleep. Freeze, muscles tense, if John rolled over, and caught him under a heavy arm, lax in slumber.

A noise outside wrenched him out of the downward spiral of thoughts. His heart beat wildly in his chest, adrenalin filling his veins.

He curled in more tightly on himself, as if trying to climb into his clothes, forcing himself back into the cushions, memories assaulting him.

He sucked in a breath, not even wanting to uncurl enough to let his lungs expand, and as it left his body again there was a shudder, a waver, and he bought his hand to his face, pressing the fabric over his mouth and nose, the hot, moist air twining between his fingers, and he bit down hard on the cuff as he knew the battle was lost.

Fear was gripping him, every shift of a shadow was an attacker, every noise an assailant. He could feel his breathing speed up, the tremor in his muscles increase.

 

Then there was another noise, close by. The soft tread of a bare foot, a hand finding the edge of the door. He scrubbed his face, stubble rasping, fabric far too coarse on his tired eyes, as a dark shadow filled the doorway.

John walked over to him, reaching out, palm up.

"Couldn't sleep again?" his voice was soft, barely a whisper.

Lestrade gave a jerky nod.

"Come on, come back to bed."

John's fingers slid over his shoulder, stroking the hair over his ear, and finally down his cheek, to take his hand.

He stood, joints and muscles stiff and awkward, and let John lead the way.

 

The side of the bed he slept on was cold. He lay on his back, John's hand heavy on his hip.

He was never sure quite what John was thinking, at moments like these.

Sometimes he wondered if John thought that these sorts of emotions were fine in theory, for other people, but that he was above them. Too strong. Stoic. The brave soldier, home from war. Dealing with them by blanking them out.

Other times he was sure that was horribly unfair. But he didn't know what to do, or say, to try and get John to share. So he did the only thing he could, and protected John from having to confront such things.

Tears built in his eyes, and he let them, staring into the gloom, until the world had disappeared into a watery haze, and the sting was too intense. Then he blinked, letting the wet spill over, running down his face, tickling his ears, soaking into his pillow, leaving itchy, salty trails over his skin.

He let tears slide down his face silently. He didn't move to wipe them away.

He didn't move at all.

 

~Fin


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